


Being

by kaguya_yoru



Series: Perchance to Dream [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Cock Rings, Comeplay, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Gags, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rope Bondage, Sub Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguya_yoru/pseuds/kaguya_yoru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson shows Clint his world. Can Clint handle it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was so inspired by all the wonderful comments on [There's the Rub](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4251978) that I had to continue!

Draw. Aim. Release. Draw. Aim. Release.

Clint let the rhythm take over as he sunk into that calm, quiet place in his head. Most of the time, his thoughts clamored for attention, making it difficult for him to sort through them all. Honestly, most of his bad decisions came from him just choosing to do the first thing that popped into his head rather than trying to wade through the mess.

Something about archery allowed him to sift through the turmoil. Allowed him to see straight and true. To pick out the important thoughts _(boomerang arrow)_ from the general mishmash.

Archery did that for him. So did Coulson.

Since the man had become his S.O. four years ago, he'd gotten more confident that his ideas were actually good ones. In debriefings, he used to only suggest new nests for himself with better vantage points; if his life was SHIELD's now, he was going to do it right. Now he felt comfortable proposing a completely different tactical plan if he thought the analysts missed something. Those blue-grey eyes of Coulson's bore into him every time he spoke but he took every word Clint said seriously, not dismissing him because of his spotty education and unconventional training. Sometimes Clint even thought he detected a hint of approval.

It made him want to strive harder. He put in even longer hours in the range. He started reading up on military tactics. And he was promoted five levels in four years. Unprecedented at SHIELD and all because of Coulson.

Draw. Aim. Release. Draw. Aim. Release.

He wasn't sure what made him decide to call Coulson last night. He hadn't known what the man was going to do for his insomnia but he certainly hadn't expected that. Sure, it had been the best orgasm of his life but, as usual, Clint had fucked up. How was he supposed to look the man in the eye, knowing Coulson knew how he sounded when he jerked off? How was he supposed to have Coulson's voice in his ear on a mission and not think about him saying the word 'cock'?

He hadn't even known Coulson could concoct such a perfect scenario for him. The scuttlebutt had him pegged as straight. There was always gossip involving him and either Agent May or Agent Hill but as far as Clint knew, that was all it was. There were some rumors about him and long hours with that Peruvian officer Camilla and that Clint was less sure about. Coulson had come back from that mission loose-limbed and with something that could almost be characterized as a smirk on his face.

But Clint had never heard of even a whisper of a rumor involving Coulson with a man.

Draw. Aim. Release. Draw. Aim. Release.

He should just let this go. He'd gotten something he'd never dreamed he would. It was a one-off, something to keep in his spank bank the next time he was feeling horny.

He didn't know what was still nagging at him. That feeling that he missed something important. That if he just looked a little harder, it would become clear.

Draw. Aim. Release. Draw. Aim. Release.

One word bloomed in his memory.

Clint stopped mid-draw.

"Fuck."

*

Clint stepped inside Coulson's office and deliberately closed the door behind him. Coulson didn’t acknowledge his entry, fingers flying over the keyboard, so Clint took the time to study him. His appearance was as polished as ever - tailored suit, neatly combed hair, contacts in place - but on closer inspection, his eyes looked red-rimmed and there was a take-out cup of coffee sitting next to his usual coffee mug. Clint had woken him up at 3 am that morning but their phone call had been less than twenty minutes - oh god, the fact that he'd gotten him off that fast - and Clint had seen him look better on much less sleep.

Coulson finished typing, made a couple of mouse clicks, and turned to him. "What is it, Barton?"

Barton, huh. Clint opened his mouth but even he was surprised at what came out. "We're not friends."

Coulson didn't even blink. "Noted. Is that all?"

"What I mean is that I've never been to your place."

Coulson leaned back in his office chair. "Are you angling for an invitation?"

"No?" Clint said before backpedaling. "Not right now?"

Coulson raised his eyebrows. Clint shook his head and got back on track.

"You've never been to my place either, Coulson," he said. "How'd you know about the credenza?"

Coulson's face smoothed and became impassive. "Lots of people have credenzas in their entryways."

Clint waited. He was a sniper; he knew how to wait. Of course, he also knew the only chance in hell he'd get an answer was if Coulson wanted to give it but he loved to live in hope.

"I've been to your place several times before," Coulson said slowly.

"When?"

Coulson's voice took on the same tone he had during debriefings. "After some missions, you were too injured or out of it to care for yourself. So I have brought over food on occasion."

Now Clint was the one to raise his eyebrows. "That was you?" he said. "I thought that was a SHIELD perk or something."

He didn't bother to ask how Coulson got in his apartment. His building was a dump, about two steps away from being condemned or just simply collapsing from a stiff breeze. Hell, he was pretty sure that a squirrel had set up residence once during one of his longer missions. He was still slipping on acorns.

"Why would you do that?"

Coulson regarded him for a long time, his blue eyes steady. Clint wondered if they were even brighter without the contacts. "You deserve to be looked after properly."

Clint swallowed. When that didn't quell the emotion rising in his throat, he did it again. Even so, his voice was rough when he spoke. "Look, if you're not seeing anyone, maybe we could get a drink sometime?" His voice rose at the end.

Coulson's face smoothed into impassivity once more. "No."

"Oh," Clint said, his voice small and quiet.

Coulson's face softened slightly. "Our tastes are," he said, "different."

"Right. Sorry." Clint said, starting to back towards the door. "You're straight, I got it."

"I'm not straight."

Clint stopped. "Okay?"

Coulson didn't say anything else. Clint felt a stab of disappointment. "You're just not into me," he said and turned to go.

" _No_." Coulson's tone was emphatic. He stood up from his chair with such force that it slid backwards and leaned forward, placing his hands palm down on the desk.

He stared into Clint's eyes, that stare that seemed to pick apart every imperfection in Clint's soul, strip him down to his component parts, and put him back together into something of worth.

"I waited an hour." His voice was fierce and every word sliced through Clint. "Sixty minutes. Only then did I let myself. Only then did I imagine you calling me back or showing up on my doorstep, begging me to do it again. Begging me to do it properly this time."

Coulson drew in a breath. Clint didn't know how because he felt like all the air had been stolen from the room. "Begging me to hold you down and fill you up. To fuck your mouth until all the breath was gone from your lungs. To claim that sweet ass that tempts me day after day. To show how good I can make you feel."

His eyes narrowed. "To tie you up and whip you until you screamed."

Clint couldn't move, his eyes wide and breaths shallow.

Coulson straightened and buttoned his suit jacket with a flick of his wrist. This was the man he trusted with his life on every mission, to make the right call when the shit hit the fan. He'd worked beside him for four years and never even glimpsed this side of him.

"As you can see," he said smoothly, as if they were simply discussing the weather, "my tastes are not vanilla. I trust that I won't hear a word of this around SHIELD." His tone was unquestioning.

Clint shook his head. "No, sir.”

Coulson’s jaw tightened. The silence stretched between them until Clint turned to go.

His fingers were skimming the door handle when he realized just what he was doing. "But one thing before I go," he said, facing Coulson again. Clint made sure that he held Coulson’s gaze for a long moment to let him see just how serious he was.

“Yes,” he said. “To all of it, yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

If this were a movie, Clint reflected later, that would have been the moment the two main characters would have shared a passionate kiss. Papers would have been shoved from the desk. Clothes would have gone flying. They both would be a lot more relaxed right about now.

Coulson stilled. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Probably not,” Clint said. “But I want you.”

Coulson stepped out from behind his desk and walked over to Clint, stopping when he was about a foot away. He held Clint’s gaze the entire time and his voice was soft when he said, “We’re not going to talk about this here. You’re going to finish your training for the day and will be at my place at 6 pm tonight.”

He paused and some unnamed emotion flashed briefly in his eyes. “I”m going to cook you dinner.”

Clint’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips and a flash of heat seared through him when Coulson’s eyes locked on them. “Yeah?” His voice broke partway through the word.

Smile lines appeared at the corner of Coulson’s eyes and his lips quirked. “Yeah,” he said. “See you tonight.”

Clint blew out a shaky breath when the office door closed behind him. He felt like he was in way over his head here. But no one had ever looked at him the way Coulson did. Whatever Coulson was into, he could be into too. It would be worth it.

A sniper’s skills were perishable, requiring training every day they weren’t on a mission. Clint trained more than most, both because of his unconventional use of a bow and because he absolutely refused to use a spotter, only trusting his own eyes to line up his shots. Usually, he spent his mornings with his bow and then switched to the gun range or training exercises in the afternoons. All that preparation meant that he didn’t have to think as much in the field and that he was more poised to handle changing circumstances.

Clint had just signed himself up for something that he knew nothing about. He felt like he had when he picked up his first bow, not knowing where to place his hands or how to stand.

Coulson had told him to train. He hadn’t said in what.

*

Clint rang the doorbell at 6 pm on the dot, resisting the urge to look for some kind of reflective surface nearby to check his hair. He did wipe his suddenly sweaty hand on his jeans, careful not to drop the bottle of wine housed in a paper bag. It had been a last minute decision, him swerving over two lanes in order to turn into the parking lot of a wine shop a quarter mile away from Coulson’s place. As a beer drinker, he had been hopelessly lost inside but the cashier had assured him that white wine went well with most dinners.

The apartment door swung open and Clint’s eyes immediately focused in on one key detail.

His hand clenched, accompanied by the crinkling of the paper bag. “Fuck, sir,” Clint breathed. “Where the hell have you been hiding those glasses?”

Those smile lines appeared and Clint felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He’d been right; the blue of his eyes was even more devastating without contacts, the glasses magnifying their intensity.

“Come in.” Coulson’s voice was warm and he smiled as he took the wine from Clint. “Oh good, Chardonnay,” he said after sliding the bottle from the bag. “That’ll go perfect with the salmon.”

He moved towards the kitchen, calling back as he did so. “Shoes off, please. And you can hang your jacket in the closet there.”

Clint followed his directions before also heading towards the kitchen. Aside from the glasses, Coulson looked much the same as he did that afternoon, although the suit jacket was gone and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. A dark blue apron protected his clothes from cooking spatters. The apartment had an open plan, the kitchen separated from the dining room only by the counter housing the sink. When Coulson turned to wash his hands, Clint could see that his tie was also absent, the top two buttons of his dress shirt unbuttoned.

“Dinner will be ready in just a moment,” Coulson said, grabbing a potholder and bending down to open the oven door. He pulled out a baking tray with sizzling asparagus spears, the smell of roasted garlic and black pepper filling the air. “How about you set the table?”

After a few attempts, Clint found the correct cabinet and drawer with plates and silverware. Coulson was busy mashing potatoes, his forearms flexing with every movement. Clint determinedly dragged his eyes away, not wanting to be responsible for breaking one of Coulson’s dishes. He hesitantly set the table, not sure if the fork should go on the left with the knife or on the right - he wished he’d paid more attention to that scene in _Pretty Woman_ \- and finally just placing both utensils on the same side and hoping for the best. After a moment, he went in search for wine glasses, popping the cork out of the bottle he’d brought, and filling them with the pale liquid. He put a little too much in his own and stole a sip to even out the levels.

Clint placed the glasses down on the table just as Coulson finished plating their meal. He hung his apron on the handle of a kitchen cabinet and picked up the plates. “That looks wonderful,” Coulson said, placing the plates on the table. “Let’s eat.”

Clint sat down and immediately reached for his wine glass. Now that he didn’t have a task to do, he suddenly felt lost again and his nerves surged. He could talk to Coulson for hours on a mission but now he could barely utter two word sentences. The food was absolutely delicious but Clint could barely taste it. He knew that he was drinking his wine too fast but he couldn’t seem to help taking nervous sips with every pause in conversation. And there were a lot of pauses.

Halfway through the meal, Coulson sighed and set down his fork with a clink. “Barton,” he said. “Sitrep.”

The words burst out of him. “What the hell are we doing here, sir?”

Coulson’s brows drew together. “We’re having a date.”

“What?” Clint stared at him. “Why?”

Coulson’s frown deepened and he regarded Clint in silence for a moment. “What exactly did you expect to happen tonight?”

Clint shrugged. The wine had loosened his tongue and he didn’t think before speaking. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “I figure you’d be the type into contracts and safewords so I thought we’d spend some time doing that, maybe over dinner so we could get right into it afterwards.”

“Right into what, exactly?” Coulson said.

“I guess that depended on your kinks, sir. You said you wanted to tie me up and whip me so I guessed that was on the table. Maybe give me some orders?” His eyes widened. “Should I be kneeling right now, sir?”

Coulson briefly closed his eyes. Clint had seen that expression many, many times before, usually in debriefings when he had to explain why jumping off the building was absolutely necessary for that particular mission.

“Barton,” he said slowly and carefully. “I know you’re out of your depth right now and don’t know what your next move should be. But you need to drop the act because you are seriously pissing me off.”

Clint slumped in his chair. “Sir.” He suddenly felt as if he’d just run a marathon.

“This is completely against protocol,” Coulson said. “Barton, have I ever broken protocol?”

Clint didn’t hesitate. “All the time, sir.”

“Exactly,” said Coulson. “When do I break protocol?”

Clint stared at him. When he answered, his voice was quiet. “When it’s important.”

“When it’s important,” Coulson repeated. He stressed the words when he spoke again. “You’re important.”

Clint didn’t have anything to say.

“You’re more important than any kinks I want to indulge,” Coulson said. “We’re both adults here. We’re only going to do this if we’re both on board with the idea. And the only way we’re going to figure that out is if we date first.”

Clint sighed. “I just feel like I’m flying blind here, sir.”

Coulson’s mouth quirked. “That is textbook for when you first start dating someone.”

“I guess I’ve never really dated anyone before,” Clint said. It was true. He mostly fell in bed multiple times with someone and only realized after they’d broken up that he’d been in a relationship. 

“That is precisely why I want us to date first.” Coulson caressed the stem of his wine glass before taking a sip. “I want to take care of you, Clint.”

Heat bloomed in Clint’s belly. That feeling. No one else had ever made him feel that way. He laughed, suddenly feeling light. “I’ve been told I’m a handful.”

Coulson’s gaze was warm. “That, I already knew.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Sir, do we have a problem here?”

It had been a month since their first date. They hadn’t seen each other much in the intervening time, both busy with preparations for separate missions. They had managed to share a cup of coffee together a week ago, squeezed in between training and strategy meetings. As far as Clint was concerned, this was their third date - “People go on coffee dates all the time,” he’d said stubbornly, burning his tongue on the too hot, bitter coffee. “This counts.” - and it looked like Coulson was going to end it the same as their first, with a long hug.

He wasn’t complaining about the hug. The hug had been fantastic, warm and with just the right amount of pressure. Coulson had slid his palm along the small of his back and electricity had zinged along his spine, leaving him with a warm feeling for hours.

“We’ve already had sex,” Clint said bluntly. “I know you’re trying to treat me right or whatever but I think we can at least get to the kissing stage now.”

Coulson tightened his jaw. “It’s not you,” he said, “it’s me.”

Clint felt a frisson of alarm. “You’re breaking up with me already?” he asked, his voice higher than usual.

They were standing in Coulson’s living room. They had spent the evening watching _Dog Cops_ and enjoying the perfect _steak frites_ Coulson had whipped up. For once, neither had an early morning meeting the next day and Clint had been hoping for something to happen between them that night. Coulson had been a perfect gentleman to him so far in their relationship and honestly, it was making him a little antsy.

“No, Clint,” Coulson said. “I’m not breaking up with you.”

“Then what is it?” Clint asked. “You didn’t even want to give this a try because you said that our tastes weren’t compatible but I haven’t seen anything so out of the ordinary here. I mean, maybe you like feeding me more than the average person but - “

Coulson moved so quickly Clint almost flinched backwards. Sometimes even he forgot just how highly trained Coulson was in the field. He stopped so close that Clint could feel the heat emanating from his body. Clint was an inch taller which meant he had to tip his head down slightly to fully meet Coulson’s gaze.

“I’m worried that once I start,” Coulson said, “I won’t be able to stop.” His eyes dropped to Clint’s lips.

Clint’s voice was little more than breath. “I trust you, sir,” he said. “Don’t stop.”

Coulson’s mouth slammed on top of his so fast it made Clint’s head spin. Clint’s lips parted on a gasp and Coulson didn’t hesitate, his tongue sweeping inside, claiming every single inch of Clint’s mouth. Coulson’s hand was hot as a brand on the back of Clint’s neck, dragging him downwards a couple of inches so that his knees bent forward slightly to accomodate. Clint grabbed onto Coulson’s biceps, needing something solid to hold onto and feeling as if he was in the front car of a roller coaster when it does that initial jerk up that first hill.

Clint felt the muscles underneath his fingertips flex and that’s all the warning he had before Coulson hooked his ankle in the back of Clint’s knee, toppling him further so that he had no choice but to fall. Coulson was there though, one hand on Clint’s neck and the other on the small of his back, controlling his descent so that his knees hit the hardwood floor with a soft thud. Somehow Coulson was able to continue the kiss throughout and he tangled his tongue with Clint’s, drawing moans from Clint’s throat.

Coulson was looming above him, his feet planted solidly shoulder-width apart. His scent filled Clint’s nostrils. Clint’s neck was stretched almost uncomfortably but he wouldn’t move for anything right now. He’d never felt so protected, so sheltered in his life and he couldn’t help the whimper that emerged when Coulson finally tore his mouth away.

His eyes were wild as he stared down at Clint, breathing heavily. No glasses today but Clint didn’t miss their presence. This was the Coulson that he knew best, blue gaze unfettered. Coulson started to move further away but Clint’s hands gripped his arms tighter, not wanting them to be separated. Coulson’s eyes darkened and he planted a hard, swift kiss on Clint’s lips, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind Clint’s ear as he did so. When he moved away this time, Clint let him go.

Coulson didn’t go far, backing away a couple of feet. Clint was left on the floor, legs splayed and hands gripping his knees. He waited for Coulson’s next move, feeling surprisingly calm and relaxed even with an erection pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.

“Take off your shirt.”

Clint pulled the black T-shirt over his head, tossing it on the ground next to him. Coulson’s gaze roamed over his torso, taking in the well-muscled arms and abs. Clint couldn’t help straightening up at the obvious approval in Coulson’s eyes, showing off the body that he fought to maintain in perfect working order.

“Touch yourself.”

Clint’s hands trailed from his waist upwards, skimming over his abs and pecs. He elongated his neck, hands caressing the soft skin. One hand stayed there while the other traveled back down to his leg, balling the denim in his fist as he fought against the urge to touch his cock. He wanted this to last and he knew as soon as he touched it, it would be all over. Bending his fingers, his blunt nails scraped over one of his dark nipples. It hardened and his other hand came up to join the first on the other side. Moans were falling from his lips now and he closed his eyes, his hips thrusting forwards as the pressure built.

 _”Touch yourself.”_ Clint’s eyes popped open. Coulson was stroking himself through his pants, his eyes hungry as he watched Clint.

The pressure was too much now and Clint groaned as he released himself from his jeans, stroking his aching cock. He was close but he wanted, needed something from Coulson before he could let go.

“Sir,” he gasped.

Coulson was there, planting a searing kiss on his lips before he straightened up, both hands still clasped lightly around his throat. “Come, beautiful,” he said, his voice dark with promise.

Clint let go.

When he came down from the high, he dimly noted that if this was what an orgasm could feel like, he wasn’t sure what he had been having before. Coulson’s hands still rested on the back of Clint’s neck, thumbs stroking along his hairline. Clint’s forehead was nestled in the junction between Coulson’s thigh and groin, his insistent cock pressed against Clint’s cheek. Clint turned his head and lazily nuzzled at it, rewarded by Coulson’s swift intake of breath.

“Let me,” he said, his words slightly slurred in the aftermath of his climax.

Coulson kept one hand on Clint’s neck as the other quickly unfastened his slacks and drew forth his hard, reddened cock. He was big in every way; long and thick and so heavy that, even fully hard, his cock was only ninety degrees from the rest of his body. Clint breathed in Coulson’s musk and licked a stripe from the base all the way to the tip.

Coulson’s hand tightened on his neck. “I’m close,” he gritted out.

Clint let his lips stretch over the head of Coulson’s cock and began to suck, slowly but surely working it inside. Coulson’s sighs and groans were music to his ears and he catalogued each one along with the movements of his tongue. His knees were starting to ache from the hardwood underneath but he soldiered on, wanting Coulson to feel as good as he did.

Coulson’s breaths sped up and Clint doubled his efforts, swirling his tongue on the underside and sucking hard on the head.

“Clint,” Coulson gasped out, “baby.”

This was the moment. Clint took as much of Coulson in as he could, until he could feel the head right at the back of his throat. He swallowed, his throat fluttering as he fought his gag reflex.

Coulson doubled over as if he was shot. Long, guttural groans sounded right in Clint’s ears as Coulson used his shoulders to remain upright, come pulsing from his cock down Clint’s throat. Clint rode it out, his hands clasped tight on Coulson’s hips, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, fighting his instinct to gasp for air.

It gave one last spurt and then Clint let Coulson’s cock slip from his mouth. Coulson slid to his knees onto the floor, heedless of his spit and come-covered cock resting on his thigh, and captured Clint’s mouth in an open-mouthed, possessive kiss. His eyes were shining when he drew back and ran his thumb over Clint’s bottom lip.

“Oh, Clint,” he said, his tone filled with wonder. “I want to give you everything.”


	4. Chapter 4

Clint let himself into his apartment and promptly slipped on an acorn. His next view was that of the living room ceiling. The paint was peeling in embarrassingly long strips.

“Fucking squirrel,” he muttered. Maybe he should get a dog. Dogs liked chasing squirrels, right?

He heaved himself to his feet and began the arduous task of stripping off his tac gear. Six weeks. Six weeks on a mission that should have been wrapped up in two. The team leader had been too weak-willed to take decisive action and his fellow teammates had seized the opportunity to try to take control of the mission. That had only resulted in numerous blunders with the end result of their target getting suspicious and doubling his security.

His teammates’ bickering through the comms had him nursing a headache by week three. By week four, he’d grown tired of playing backup to every bumbling attempt at gathering the appropriate evidence, taken control of the mission, and infiltrated the building the very next night. The analysts had needed the last two weeks to verify the information and Clint had turned off his comms completely for it. If they’d needed him, an emergency channel existed.

A loud groan escaped his lips as he collapsed onto his bed. Sleep dragged him under in minutes.

He woke nine hours later, teeth fuzzy and skin gritty. Clint dragged himself into the shower and brushed his teeth, all without opening his eyes. He finally peeled them open long enough to set the coffee maker, replacing the stale air of his apartment with the more welcome aroma of roasted coffee beans. The beep of the coffee maker startled him; he wasn’t sure if he’d actually fallen asleep or not. His only coffee mug was dirty and he yawned widely as he swiped a sponge on the inside to clean it.

The first cup of coffee made him feel vaguely human. The second cup allowed him to fully open his eyes for the first time that day. He wandered over to the window of his living room. Setting down the mug, he braced his shoulder against the frame and shoved the window open a few inches, wincing at the screech of the warped wood. The only view was of the solid brick wall of the building next door but it was better than the depressing decor inside his apartment.

His next two weeks were technically protected time off but the higher-ups were pissed at how the mission went and wanted him to debrief in detail. It was going to be incredibly boring but it kept him from being shipped out on any other mission unless it was a true emergency.

It allowed him to finally have the time to turn his thoughts to Coulson.

He had had time to think during those two weeks of self-imposed radio silence. He had always found himself gravitating towards people who knew how to take control but no one had ever done it as thoroughly as Coulson did. It gave him hope that for once, he might not fuck this all up.

Clint frowned and took a sip of coffee.

Coulson hadn’t wanted them to get together because he’d said their tastes were different. So far, he hadn’t seen any evidence of that. His relationships before had been mostly sex punctuated by arguments. He liked that they could have real conversations over dinner. They worked together well in the field and that seemed to translate to their relationship as well. Especially in the bedroom. Well, living room, technically.

Look, the sex was mind-blowing.

The only thing he knew about Coulson’s alternative tastes was that he wanted to tie Clint up and whip him. Clint felt a shiver run through him at the thought of that. Before that first date, he’d done a quick search about BDSM. But there had been so much information and a couple of hours hadn’t been enough time to sort through it all.

Coulson had gone dark on his own mission three weeks ago and was due back in a week.

Clint refilled his coffee cup and booted up his laptop. It was time to learn more.

*

Clint emerged from the conference room and made a beeline straight towards the cafeteria. Three days of meetings and he felt like a headache had taken up permanent residence in his skull. They’d not only wanted him to go over every parameter of the mission but also wanted him to give a detailed assessment of each of his teammates. It was nerveracking; he didn’t want to throw any of them under the bus but it was clear they could all benefit from further training.

He was waiting to pay for his coffee when he heard it. “This is the most amazing scone I’ve ever had. Coulson made this?”

Clint looked to his right. It was a redheaded junior agent, shamelessly licking her fingers. A second junior agent, braids swinging gently with every movement of her head, had two scones wrapped in a paper napkin. “Yeah, can you believe it?” she said, taking a bite of her own. “Although I heard he only does it when the mission goes bad.”

Clint collected his coffee and headed towards Coulson’s office. He hadn’t known Coulson was back but that wasn’t unusual. Coulson was a level higher than him and often sent out on more classified missions with little to no notice. Clint had made a personal habit of his to check in with his S.O. whenever he heard he was back on base.

His office was empty.

Really bad mission then. Clint moved towards the gun range. Coulson was in the last lane, jaw clenched and face as still as if it had been carved out of granite. His eyes blazed as he emptied a clip into the paper target. All the other agents in the range were giving him a wide berth.

Clint swept his gaze over him, finding no obvious injuries. He turned on his heel and headed back to the conference room.

The text came four hours later: _Dinner tonight? 8 pm._

*

Clint showed up with a six pack of beer and his head filled with questions. The aroma of oregano and tomato sauce spilled out into the hallway when Coulson opened the door.

“Mmm,” said Clint, handing over the beer. “That smells amazing.”

Coulson’s lips quirked briefly but tension still deepened the lines on his face. By the time Clint joined him, shoes off and jacket hung up, he’d already popped open two of the beers. He handed one to Clint and took a long pull off the one still in his hand.

“Bad mission?” Clint said, taking a sip of his own.

Coulson nodded. “Bad mission,” he said. “Two agents dead.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

The oven beeped and Coulson set down his beer. He reached for an object that Clint had only seen in one type of restaurant.

“Coulson,” he said, disbelief coloring his tone. “Coulson, are you making me pizza?”

For the first time that day, the tension drained completely from Coulson’s face. He smiled and opened the oven door, sliding the large rectangular paddle underneath the baking stone. The preheated crust bubbled slightly as he set it on the kitchen counter. He expertly swirled tomato sauce on the inside and sprinkled plenty of mozzarella cheese on top.

“I’m assuming you want pepperoni,” Coulson said, reaching for the package.

“Is there any other topping?” Clint said, taking another sip of beer and content to watch Coulson work.

The veins in Coulson’s forearms popped as he lifted the baking stone once again and slid it back into the oven. Clint stepped closer when he was done.

“You’re making me pizza,” he said, staring into Coulson’s blue-grey eyes. There was a ring of hazel right around the pupil.

“I am,” Coulson said and captured Clint’s lips with his own. The kiss was long and thorough, full of feelings still left unsaid. Clint didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this but he gripped Coulson’s shoulders, hoping with all his might that he could hold on tight.

Clint pulled in a shaky breath when they parted. “I have questions,” he admitted, opening his eyes.

“I know,” said Coulson, his face serious. “After dinner.”

*

“I’ve been doing some research,” Clint said, playing with his beer bottle. “But I still don’t know what you like.”

Coulson sat in an armchair while Clint sprawled on the couch. He’d switched from beer to Scotch, swirling the amber liquid around in a tumbler before taking a sip. “Tell me about what you read,” he said.

Clint blew out a breath. “There’s a lot out there.”

“Anything you liked?”

“Yes?” Clint said. “Maybe?” He took a pull off his beer. “I don’t know. I’ve never done any of this before.” A hint of frustration crept into his voice.

Coulson set his tumbler down on the end table down with a soft clink. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being unfair.”

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “These past couple of months have been wonderful,” said Coulson. “I’ve been trying to delay the inevitable.”

Clint frowned. “Inevitable what?”

“I haven’t found anyone,” Coulson said, “who could handle both my professional and personal lifestyles. It has made dating difficult.”

“We know each other,” Clint said. “We already know we can work together.”

Coulson leaned back in his chair. “You know me at work,” he said, his expression falling back into that blank mask that personified Agent Coulson.

“Fine, I know you at work,” Clint said. “Isn’t this why you wanted us to date in the first place? To see if this would work?”

He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve been warning me off from the beginning. It’s time for you to tell me why.”

Coulson nodded and pulled open the drawer in the end table. He handed Clint a folded piece of paper.

Clint took a deep breath and flipped the paper open. There were nine lines of text in Coulson’s tidy scrawl. He went through them one by one and then glanced once more through the list to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. A relieved smile bloomed on his face.

“Sir,” he said, laughter evident in his voice. “This is what you were worried about? The things I was imagining - ” He shook his head.

“Look at it again.” Coulson’s voice was firm and slightly harsh. The laughter died in Clint’s throat. “We haven’t seen each other in almost two months. Do you mean to tell me you would have been perfectly fine with me telling you not to come at all during that time? If I told you that I didn’t want you to come without my permission at all?”

“I haven’t.”

Coulson’s nostrils flared and Clint could see his pupils dilate. “What?” Coulson said, his voice tightly controlled.

“Since that first phone call,” Clint said slowly. “I haven’t come without you telling me to.”

Coulson had the tumbler in a tight grip. “There are other things - ”

“There’s nothing on this list that’s a hard no for me,” Clint interrupted. He waved the paper in the air. “You’ll have to spell out what some of these things mean for you but there’s nothing on here that I’m not okay with.”

Clint could read the hesitation still present in Coulson’s body language. But finally, he nodded.

“We’ll take it slow,” Coulson promised.


	5. Chapter 5

“Have you thought about what we talked about?” Coulson asked while Clint was toeing off his shoes.

It had been two days since Coulson had finally revealed his kinks to Clint. Clint had been eager to discuss them further, even try out something that night, but Coulson had insisted that he take some time to think about it. Clint hadn’t been able to do anything else but think about it; it had at least made the interminable meetings a little more tolerable.

Clint rolled his eyes and shrugged off his black leather jacket. “Coulson, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since that day in your office. I told you then. I’m in.”

Coulson’s eyes darkened. “I’d like to try something tonight.”

He led Clint into the living room. There was a rectangular bookcase behind Coulson’s sofa. Normally, its surface was clear but tonight it held several items that piqued Clint’s interest and simultaneously made his mouth run dry.

They stopped in front of an armchair that faced the kitchen. “Before we begin,” Coulson said, “you need to tell me your safeword.”

Clint had been thinking about that. “I couldn’t think of a good word,” he said, shrugging. “I figured the traffic light system was good enough.”

Coulson nodded. “Mine is Tahiti,” he said. There was something in his voice when he said it but, looking at his face, it wasn’t something to be talked about at this moment. Clint filed it away for the future.

“For this, I want to gag you,” Coulson said, “if that’s okay with you.” Clint nodded. “We’ll use a safe symbol instead. Do you know how to snap your fingers?”

Clint snapped his fingers on his right hand, then his left for good measure. “That works for me.”

Coulson stepped in close. “One of the items on the list was rope bondage.” He caressed Clint’s cheek. “It’s less about me restraining you and more about me decorating you. I would put ropes here,” his fingertips slid to Clint’s throat, “here,” both hands stroked his torso, “here,” his hands encircled Clint’s wrists and brought them together, “and here,” he said, crouching to run his hands up Clint’s calves.

He stood. “The aforementioned gag,” he said, his thumb catching on Clint’s lower lip. “And a cockring,” he added, cupping Clint’s growing erection and drawing a gasp from him.

“You’re going to be tied up for at least an hour. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“N-no.”

Clint was caught by the possessive glint in Coulson’s eyes. “You are not to come unless I say you can,” Coulson said.

“Not,” Clint said breathlessly, “not a problem.” He was lying. He thought it was going to be a huge problem. He was already half-hard at the thought of Coulson doing those things. How was he supposed to last while he actually did them?

Coulson smirked as if he knew exactly what Clint was thinking. He let go and stepped back. “Strip,” he said.

Clint undressed in record speed, tossing his clothes on the couch. Coulson picked up one of the lengths of rope, bright purple in color, and looped it over Clint’s head. He began tying overhand knots in the rope at even-spaced intervals, tying the last one so that it was nestled in his belly button. He wound the two free-hanging lengths around Clint’s waist, tying another knot to secure them in the back. Coulson threaded them through the loop around Clint’s neck and then started working each one down Clint’s torso, weaving them in and out of the center ropes and creating a diamond pattern as he went.

Looking down, Clint was mesmerized by the surety of Coulson’s actions as he manipulated the ropes. He finished the last knot and slid a finger between the ropes and Clint’s skin. “How do they feel?” Coulson asked. “Too tight?”

Clint shook his head no. He couldn’t bring himself to speak.

Coulson guided him to sit in the armchair and quickly wound another length of rope around Clint’s calves. No intricate knotwork there, just simply lashing his legs together. He repeated his questions and stood up when Clint indicated he was fine.

He reached for another length of rope and ran his thumb down the column of Clint’s throat. Clint swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Let me know if this is too much,” Coulson said.

Coulson wound the rope back and forth so that the pressure was evenly distributed. Just five passes snug against his neck, enough so that he could feel it but still maintain relatively free range of motion. Coulson tied it off in the back.

“Baby?” he said, his fingers tracing the skin just above the rope collar. “I need you to talk to me. How does it feel?”

Clint couldn’t describe how he felt. “Good,” he croaked out finally, feeling his neck muscles expand against the rope.

There was only one length of rope left. Coulson trailed his fingers down both of Clint’s arms until he reached his wrists. His hands grasped them tightly and he suddenly shoved them against the headrest of the armchair, dipping his head to plunder Clint’s mouth with his own.

Clint moaned and arched his back, moaning again when he felt the ropes pull tighter with his movements. Coulson was ruthless, his tongue dancing with Clint’s until he felt dizzy with desire. He finally pulled away and Clint slumped in the chair, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

The last rope was used to tie Clint’s wrists together, criss-crossed. Coulson bound Clint’s tied wrists to the back of his neck, his palms facing downwards. “Two more items and we’ll be done,” he said.

“Tell me when you’re close,” Coulson warned and took Clint’s cock in a firm grip.

Clint gave a sharp cry and his whole body jerked forward. It was the first time Coulson had ever touched him there; his hand was warm and slightly rough, gun calluses catching on Clint’s delicate skin. He played Clint like an instrument, thumb circling the tip and stroking the underside while his fist moved rhythmically. Clint’s cries traveled higher and higher in pitch until he barely remembered to call out, “Close!” He felt a soft band cinch tight at the base of his penis and his cock jerked once, twice.

Hands cupped his jaw and a soft kiss was pressed to his mouth. Clint opened his eyes to see Coulson smiling at him. “It’s a shame to muffle those sounds,” he said, “but I know you’ll look gorgeous with a gag.”

He picked up the piece of soft fabric. Clint obediently opened his mouth and the cloth was pressed inside and fastened at the nape of his neck.

Coulson drew back so that he could admire his handiwork. The rope design was relatively simple but Clint’s well-muscled arms were clearly on display and his flushed cock curved towards his belly, cockring nestled at its base. “Beautiful,” he said.

His expression turned serious. “If you feel any numbness or tingling, snap your fingers immediately,” Coulson said. “Show me you can do it.”

Clint snapped his fingers.

“Good.” Coulson started to turn towards the kitchen but Clint made a questioning noise and strained forward, his eyes trained on Coulson’s obvious erection. He smiled. “I’m going to make us dinner, sweetheart,” he said. “Later.”

Clint blinked slowly and nodded. His thoughts felt sluggish and a languid feeling had fallen over him. He felt like he was on the good drugs at medical. Cooking sounds started in the kitchen and his body relaxed.

He drifted.

“Clint.”

Clint opened his eyes. Coulson was standing in front of him, gaze drinking him in. Clint’s cock gave another jerk at the heat in Coulson’s eyes, precome sliding down the tip.

“Do you want to come?” Coulson asked. Clint nodded, suddenly desperate for it. His hands opened and closed in his bonds and he arched his back, pleading with his eyes for Coulson to touch him again. A corner of Coulson’s lips lifted. “I think you’ve earned it, waiting so patiently for me.” He reached down and grasped Clint’s cock.

Clint snapped his head back. Firm strokes up and down his shaft. Pressure building low in his groin. His balls drawing up closer to his body. Moans spilling from around the gag. Neck muscles straining against the rope, hips thrusting in Coulson’s warm grip. Moisture welling up in his eyes. But the band around the base of his penis kept him from reaching that ultimate peak. Coulson’s lips right next to his ear. “Come,” he said and slipped the ring off.

Orgasm slammed through Clint. His hips jerked helplessly and he felt like it went on forever. There was a salty taste in his mouth; a few tears had slipped from his eyes. Dimly, he was aware of Coulson groaning in his ear and warm come joining the mess already on his belly.

The ropes were gently unwound from his body and the mess cleaned from his skin. Coulson guided him onto the sofa and wrapped a blanket around him, pulling him close.

Clint silently followed Coulson’s directions. He felt empty and full at the same time. He couldn’t speak, still lost in the haze that had accompanied his orgasm. When he finally swam back closer to conscious thought, Coulson was pressing gentle kisses against his temple.

“Perfect,” Coulson whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”


	6. Chapter 6

Clint had been feeling off-kilter all day.

His emotions felt like they were scraped raw. It was hard for him to think and it took more effort than usual to string together sentences. He didn’t think anyone else had noticed his difficulty but the meetings had taken on an endless quality, as if he were stuck in the Twilight Zone. A fog surrounded his thoughts, similar to a hangover, but he had been completely sober the night before. Tension knotted his muscles and he shuddered to think what his aim would be like if he’d tried to shoot right now.

He sent a text to Coulson halfway through the day: _Dinner? I’ll bring Thai._

For some reason, he couldn’t take the thought of Coulson cooking for him that night. Coulson texted him a time and his order and Clint tried to will away the remaining minutes in the day.

He was subdued when he showed up at Coulson’s door. He picked at his food but he wasn’t particularly hungry.

“Is something wrong?” Coulson asked, when it was obvious Clint was giving only one or two-word answers to his questions.

A surge of irritation rose in him. “I’ve only seen your living room,” Clint said, frustration in his voice. “Have you been hiding something kinky in your bedroom? Something not on the list?”

Coulson set down his fork. “No,” he said, regarding Clint thoughtfully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “was intense.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, stabbing at his food with his fork. “It was.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Coulson’s eyes were so blue and Clint just couldn’t stand looking at them anymore.

“No, I don’t.” He stared down at his Pad Thai.

Coulson was silent a moment. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I couldn’t touch you!” The words burst out of Clint. “You tied me up and left me there and I couldn’t touch you!” It didn’t matter that they had cuddled on the sofa for almost an hour afterwards. Clint couldn’t figure out what was going on with him.

“Do you want to touch me now?” Coulson’s gaze was steady.

Simply the thought of it made emotion swell in his throat. He didn’t say anything, just held Coulson’s gaze.

Coulson nodded and stood. He led the way into his bedroom.

It was as tastefully decorated as the rest of his apartment, full of dark wood furnishings. A dark blue striped duvet covered the made up king sized bed. The room was tidy, the tie he’d worn earlier that day rolled up neatly on top of the dresser.

Coulson stopped at the foot of the bed and waited. Clint closed the bedroom door behind him, shutting out most of the light. A single table lamp glowed in the corner, dimly illuminating the room. He joined Coulson at the foot of the bed and let out a small sigh when he grasped Coulson’s shoulders.

Clint dipped his head and kissed Coulson, keeping it soft and sweet. Coulson returned it, letting Clint control the pace and depth. Clint slid his hands up and down Coulson’s torso and back, cherishing the solid feel of him. He pulled back from the kiss slowly but stayed close. Their breaths mingled as he turned his attention to the buttons of Coulson’s dress shirt.

He helped Coulson undress, his hands caressing each new patch of skin revealed. Clint guided Coulson onto the bed and continued to touch him, running his hands through his chest hair, tracing his broad shoulders and trim waist. He even stroked Coulson’s erect cock a few times, his hand a loose fist. It soothed something inside him to have Coulson close.

But it wasn’t enough. Finally, he drew back his hands and blew out a breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, sir,” he admitted, frustration evident.

“May I?” Coulson asked. Clint didn’t know what he was asking but he didn’t know what else to do. He nodded.

In a surge of motion, Coulson flipped them so that he was kneeling over Clint. His hands pinned Clint’s to the bed and he stole Clint’s breath away in a hard kiss. 

Coulson was naked as the day he was born and Clint was fully clothed but it didn’t matter. Coulson was clearly the one in control and Clint found himself sinking in that same feeling from last night. With every swipe of Coulson’s tongue, he felt himself falling faster and faster.

Everything faded to black.

When he came to, the fog had lifted from his head. The tension had faded from his body and he stretched, reveling in how relaxed he felt. He blinked a couple of times slowly and looked to his right. Coulson was sitting against the headboard, looking down at him. He’d redressed and exchanged his contacts for the thick-framed black glasses.

Clint sat up so that he could face Coulson. “What the hell happened to me?”

“Just now,” said Coulson, “and last night, I believe you entered subspace. I’ve heard it’s a wonderful feeling and I’m so glad I could give that to you.”

Clint shook his head. That wasn’t what he was asking and he knew Coulson knew it. “What the hell happened to me?”

“In the intervening time,” Coulson said, “I think you were in subdrop. I’m so sorry, baby.” The corners of his mouth were creased in a frown and his brow was furrowed.

“That’s - ” Clint shook his head again. “I didn’t know if I could shoot straight. Coulson, that is not okay.”

Coulson looked genuinely upset. “Subspace doesn’t happen to everyone and neither does subdrop. I didn’t know it would happen to you.”

Clint slid from the bed, setting his feet down carefully on the ground before standing up. “I have to think about this. I didn’t know, and - ” He broke off.

He didn’t want to meet Coulson’s gaze but he forced himself. “I just have to think about this.”

As Clint watched, that blank mask slid over Coulson’s features. He stood as well. “I understand,” he said, his agent persona obviously present. “Take all the time you need.”

The mask slipped for a moment. “I’ll be here,” Coulson said.


	7. Chapter 7

“Natasha Romanoff.”

The blurry picture attached to the file showed a ¾ profile view of a young woman with red chin-length hair. Compared to their usual targets, her file was sparse, containing a few speculative details and even fewer verified ones.

Coulson pressed a button and another picture came up on the monitor. This one showed a curvy female form but the shoulder-length hair obscured her face. “AKA Natalia Alianova Romanoff. AKA Black Widow. KGB spy and assassin trained almost from birth.”

He hit another button and the same picture from their paper files came up on the screen. “As far as we know, she’s a black belt in numerous martial arts, speaks several languages, and is an expert marksman and computer hacker. Our orders are clear.” Coulson looked around the room. “She is to be eliminated.”

The room was silent. Clint glanced at its occupants. They were SHIELD’s top agents, the best of what it had to offer. He supposed he should be lucky that he was among them.

“Wheels up at 0400,” Coulson said. “We’re headed to Budapest.”

*

Clint settled in to sleep; the flight was 10 hours long and he was going to need every modicum of energy if he was going to pull this off. Four sniper teams and eight field units were being deployed to cover the 200 square mile city of Budapest. It was unknown whether she would actually show but it was the best lead they’d had in years.

His thoughts wouldn’t settle down at first. Coulson was in his field of view, jaw clenched as he went through mission parameters on his tablet, navy blue suit bringing out the color of his eyes. Almost a month later and Clint still didn’t know how he felt about them. He didn’t even know if they were still technically in a relationship or not. They hadn’t talked at all since that night.

His ability to shoot a bow was all he had left. It was the only thing that made him valuable to SHIELD. Knowing that there was something outside of drugs, dismemberment, and death that could take that away was frightening. Knowing that the man he cared for so deeply had the ability to take that away was downright terrifying. He trusted Coulson with his life. He wasn’t sure he trusted Coulson with his bow.

There were too many secrets between them. Too many things left unsaid. Clint may have risen to level 5 but Coulson was level 6. He could be sent on a mission at any moment that Clint would have no clearance to know anything about. They could be separated for months at a time. What if Clint fell back into subdrop and Coulson was shipped out the next morning, not there to bring him out of it? Subspace may have felt incredible but subdrop had felt like the worst hangover of his life. He couldn’t do his job like that. He wouldn’t be Hawkeye anymore.

Coulson woke them all a half hour before they were due to land. “You have your assignments,” he said. “We’re giving this operation two weeks. If she doesn’t show in that time, we’ll presume that she’s moved on and the trail is cold.”

He took them all in. “Don’t get distracted by her pretty face. Even if you don’t see a visible weapon, this woman is to be considered armed and dangerous. Let’s move out.”

The sniper teams moved into position in their assigned quadrants. The most highly trained for reconnaissance, they were to be the point men for this mission with the field teams acting to box in the target and reduce casualties. Every sniper team and field unit tapped for this mission had spent hours working with each other before and functioned as well-oiled machines.

Clint was the only one who worked alone. He checked in the comms with the rest but, unlike most snipers, he didn’t work with a spotter. When he used a bow, he didn’t require one and when he did switch to a gun, he didn’t trust anyone else to line up his shots. He’d long since proven himself; nobody worried that the legendary Hawkeye would miss a shot. He wanted to keep it that way.

His initial sweep turned up nothing of interest. All across the city, similar reports were coming in.

Coulson was coordinating the mission with Sitwell acting as second in command. “Keep alert,” he said at the end of the first day. “We don’t want to miss anything here.”

She showed on the fourth day.

“I’ve got visual. Repeat, I’ve got visual.”

Clint checked the frequency. It was coming from the southwest corner of the city. He was stationed in the northwest quadrant. Adrenaline kicked in but he remained calm, continuing his own sweep of his designated quadrant.

“Are you sure it’s her?” Coulson asked.

“Positive. She’s - ” The agent broke off and the line went silent.

“Agent?” said Coulson. “Report!”

The agent came back on the line. “I’ve lost visual. Repeat, I’ve lost visual.”

That became the pattern for the next week. She popped up all over the city but their units lost sight of her almost immediately. There was some speculation that she was using a double but Clint didn’t think that was the case. She was just that good. He tracked her reported locations on his own map and finally broke his own self-imposed radio silence.

“Sir?” he said. “I think she’s looking for something.” He was closer to the center of the city. It was late at night and the city glowed with neon lights. It was beautiful. Maybe one day he’d come back and visit.

A short silence. “Copy that,” Coulson said.

He spotted her the next day. She was on a slim motorcycle, weaving her way through the tight streets. It was midday on a Saturday and the city was full of traffic, tourists and residents mingling together to enjoy the warm weather. He tracked her for a quarter mile through his scope.

“I’ve got visual,” he said, holstering his gun. “Giving pursuit.”

He slid down the drainpipe and ran over to his own motorcycle, his preferred form of transportation. He’d been studying her movements carefully and he was pretty certain of where she was going to go. There were orders for him to report through his comms but he ignored them. Revving the throttle, he guided the motorcycle through alleyways and side streets.

Sure enough, after ten minutes, he saw a motorcycle zoom past him at an intersection, her shoulder-length red hair fluttering in the wind. He sped up, ignoring the traffic lights, to keep her in his sight. There were multiple trackers embedded in his clothes and gear so he didn’t bother to report his location; he could hear Coulson mobilizing field units to follow his route.

She plunged into the city center traffic and Clint realized where they were headed when they were half a mile away.

“Set up roadblocks on the Chain Bridge,” he shouted. “Now!”

The Széchenyi Chain Bridge spanned the River Danube, linking the western and eastern parts of the city. He wasn’t sure if his order would do any good; there were field units already stationed there but he and the Black Widow were moving so fast the agents wouldn’t have time to thin out the traffic.

They crossed onto the bridge, Clint having closed the distance so that he was only 30 yards away. Truthfully, he could take her out at this distance but he had never shot a fellow human being in the back and he wasn’t about to start now. They were both riding between the car lanes, passing the slower-moving cars.

Halfway across the bridge, she came to a dead stop, her back wheel popping into the air as she balanced on the front wheel. Clint almost fishtailed as he slammed on the brakes and swung his handlebars hard to the left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her right hand lift off the handlebar as her back wheel succumbed to gravity and he reacted without thinking, his left hand grabbing the handgun strapped to his calf and swinging it in her direction.

They were only about 30 feet away from each other. The screech of tires on asphalt filled the air as cars swerved to avoid them but neither moved. Their gazes were locked and they both were breathing heavily.

“Are you Hawkeye?”

Clint didn’t answer. Her mouth was painted a bright cherry red and one corner of it lifted. It reminded him of Coulson and his hand gripped the gun tighter.

“Are you here to kill me?” The smile on her lips didn’t match her tone of voice. It was dull, lifeless. Clint looked in her eyes. He knew that expression on her face.

The traffic was starting to thin. Soon, the field units would converge on the bridge. He made a decision.

He grabbed the second handgun strapped to his hip with his right hand and put several bullets into the engine block of her motorcycle. He trained both guns on her.

“Get on the bike,” he said.

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then she was holstering her gun and jumping off the motorcycle, letting it fall to the ground. He revved the engine as she sprinted towards him and she was barely on board before he took off. He aimed it back the way they came, hoping that the roadblock wasn’t fully in place.

It wasn’t. There were orders over the comms for him to stand down. He ignored them all and shots began to ring out. He careened through the roadblock, zig-zagging to avoid being hit. He could feel the Black Widow tucked against his back and he made sure to put vehicles in between them and the field units as soon as he could.

Coulson was ordering all units to hold fire. The gunfire died down.

They were still vulnerable in the center of the city. “Hawkeye! Report!” Coulson was shouting over the comm line.

Clint pulled into an alley so that Coulson could hear him over the wind. “Trust me, sir,” he said. His voice was soft but clear.

A beat of silence. “You have 24 hours,” Coulson said, his voice tight with barely controlled fury. “Then I’m declaring you rogue.”


	8. Chapter 8

Clint ditched the motorcycle on the outskirts of the city.

“I’m Clint,” he said, walking the bike into a narrow lane between two houses. Like everything else on him, it was being tracked and SHIELD would collect it soon enough. “What do I call you?”

“Natasha,” she replied, her eyes a little too vacant for his liking.

“Okay, Natasha,” he said. Clint moved so that he was directly in front of her. They were in a residential part of Budapest, on the outer edge of the city before it gave way to suburbs and countryside. It was a risk stopping there - civilians could be caught in the crossfire - but he needed to know what he was up against before he made any more decisions.

“In less than 24 hours, SHIELD is going to declare me rogue,” Clint said, blunt and to the point. “Are we going to be walking into SHIELD custody before then?”

That smile was back. “I’d rather die,” she said and her voice was a low, seductive purr.

“Okay, then. Plan B it is.” Clint stashed his bow and quiver with the bike, suppressing the pang of distress that evoked; they too had trackers attached. “You got weapons?” he said. “We’re going to need them.”

He switched his clothes for those bought in a thrift store - black combat boots scuffed grey at the toes, blue jeans, a black T-shirt soft with wear, and a brown leather jacket that had seen better days. His weapons were exchanged for those from one of Natasha’s caches. He negotiated for the sale of an old pickup truck with 198,000 miles on the odometer and they headed out of the city proper, using back roads and residential streets. It would take them longer but they would be harder to track.

Throughout it all, they maintained a wary silence. As the hours ticked away, Clint became less sure that he’d read her right, that this wasn’t some ploy for information or to take him out. He clenched his jaw and kept driving; he had started down this road and he was going to take it to the end.

At the twenty four hour mark, Natasha stopped speaking English. Clint quickly figured out what she was doing; he had some basic skills in a few languages but every time he tried to respond, she switched to a different one. He stopped talking altogether and a stony silence fell once more.

He pulled into a motel late that night, paying for a room with two double beds. Clint did a quick wash-up in the sink, gun close at hand the entire time. His skin was starting to feel grimy but he didn’t want to risk taking a shower. Natasha spent even less time than he did in the bathroom and curled into the far corner of one of the beds, keeping the door and Clint in her sights.

Neither of them slept that night.

Clint downed the cheap coffee he brewed in the complimentary coffee maker the next morning, desperately wishing he could inject it directly into his veins. He had been on high alert for two weeks straight now and his adrenaline reserves were starting to run a bit low. But more than that, he felt a bone-deep exhaustion.

He liked his life at SHIELD. If his only skill was with a bow and arrow, then he was glad to supply it to the good guys. It made him feel as if he was atoning for his years as a merc, when he’d made no effort to distinguish between contracts, his only goal to secure enough money for a roof over his head for the night and food in his belly. SHIELD had given him Coulson, who’d put a bullet in his leg and told him that he could do better. Be better.

He’d thrown that all away for a pretty girl who was almost dead inside.

Clint glanced at Natasha. She looked small and young, huddled against the passenger door of the cabin. A grey hoodie partially covered her bright red hair and her chin rested in the palm of her hand as she gazed out the window. But Clint could see that her left hand was close to the handgun strapped to her hip and her eyes alternated between the road in front of them and the side view mirror.

That look she’d had on the bridge was the same one he’d encountered five years ago, when he’d realized that he didn’t know if there was any good left in him at all. He hadn’t known it at the time but that was when he’d given up. That was the beginning of the end, a year-long decline that had culminated in him allowing the government suit chasing him to catch up.

This was probably the end of whatever beginning he and Coulson had been trying to forge; Clint had never heard him so furious before. Well, Clint had always suspected that he was going to fuck it all up. It was better to have happened sooner rather than later, before either of them had gotten too attached. He had hopes that they could at least salvage their working relationship from this, if he even had a job to go back to after all this.

He glanced at Natasha again. Maybe his story would help her decide. Maybe he had a chance to save her - a way to repay the favor that Coulson had done for him so long ago.

Clint opened his mouth and began to talk.

*

His voice was hoarse when they stopped again for the night. It had been 32 hours since he’d been officially declared rogue. Clint had no illusions that their superior skills were keeping them alive so far; SHIELD had far more resources now than they did five years ago when they’d been hunting him down. His only thought was that Coulson was somehow fighting to give him a chance and he desperately hoped that that wasn’t the case. This had been his risk to take and he didn’t want anyone else caught in the crossfire.

The motel room was very similar to the one they’d stayed in the previous night, although with the addition of an armchair in the far corner. Natasha immediately curled up in it, her green eyes wary. Clint sighed and busied himself making two cups of coffee.

He set one on the side table next to Natasha. She completely ignored it and fixed her gaze on him.

“This Coulson,” she said. It was the first time she’d spoken to him in English since Budapest. “Who is he to you?”

Clint took a sip of coffee. “He’s my S.O.,” he said. “Supervising officer.”

Natasha fell silent once more. Clint finished the cup and lay down on the thin, scratchy comforter of the double bed farthest from the door. Weariness weighed down his limbs and his blinking slowed. He tried to stay awake but it was too late and he slipped into sleep.

He dreamed of a voice saying “Beautiful” and ropes criss-crossing his skin. Floating and falling, his body drifting even though he was still in one place. Hands caressing him, sending pleasure spiraling through his body. A breathy whisper against his ear. “Will you be my S.O.?”

But it was the wrong timbre and his eyes popped open as his hand clamped down on Natasha’s wrist. At the same time, he felt cold metal bite into the delicate skin of his neck.

“Is that what SHIELD does?” She asked fiercely, her green eyes glittering in the dark. Her left hand was cupping his half-hard cock while the other held a dagger to his neck. “ _Train_ you? Will you be my S.O. if I turn myself in?”

“Fuck, I hope not,” Clint said. “What the hell is the matter with you? That’s what you got from me telling you my life story?”

She didn’t move an inch. Clint swallowed and felt the dagger press closer to his neck. “SHIELD is good,” he said. “I don’t know what methods the KGB used to train you but SHIELD doesn’t work that way. They’re committed to protecting the world.”

That was, of course, the moment SHIELD found them. Shouts of “Stand down” filled the air as agents pounded on the door.

Clint and Natasha didn’t acknowledge their presence. Green eyes stared down into blue ones. He could see that she didn’t want to believe but there was a spark there that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“Surrender,” Clint said, feeling a small trickle of warm blood slide down his neck. “See for yourself.”

Natasha gave him a brief nod. Her hand loosened and the dagger fell to the coverlet. When agents poured into the room a minute later, they were standing in the center of the room, hands up, Clint slightly in front to shield her if necessary. All of their weapons were spilled across one of the double beds.

“We surrender,” he said. “Take us in.”

*

They were taken to a nearby SHIELD base in separate armored vehicles, hands cuffed and feet shackled. The interrogation rooms had changed since the last time he’d been in one. They were more sterile now with no obvious two-way mirror along one wall. A metal cot resided in one corner while a table and two chairs made of similar material was placed in the center of the room. The only door had no handle on the inside and when closed, was virtually seamless with the rest of the wall.

Clint chose to sit at the table and was mildly surprised when Jasper Sitwell walked through the door three hours after his surrender. The brown skin of his bald head gleamed in the light as he sat at the table and linked his fingers together.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Clint.

Sitwell’s voice contained no inflections as he began. “Did you know Natasha Romanoff before being given this mission?”

“No.”

“Did you receive monetary compensation for helping Natasha Romanoff escape?”

“No.”

Sitwell’s eyes were steady behind his wire-framed glasses. “Did Natasha Romanoff promise you sexual favors to help her escape?”

“No.”

“Did Natasha Romanoff threaten your life if you didn’t help her escape?”

“No.”

“Do you remember any aerosols, gases, or liquids deployed near you before you agreed to help Natasha Romanoff escape?”

“No.”

“Did you conspire with Agent Phil Coulson to conduct an unauthorized secondary mission to turn Natasha Romanoff?”

Clint’s hand twitched slightly but he didn’t change expression. “No.”

“How long have you been in a sexual relationship with Agent Phil Coulson?”

Clint blinked. “I’d like to speak to my S.O.” he said. “If he’s going to lie, I’d like to know why.”

Sitwell leaned back in his chair. “No.”


	9. Chapter 9

“You got them to change it to a rescue mission.” Clint had figured out that much from Sitwell’s questioning.

“Yes,” Coulson said. A week had passed since Clint’s surrender. He and Coulson were both suspended, pending further evaluation of their actions regarding the Black Widow. Coulson had been permanently removed from his position as Clint’s S.O. and they were currently on SHIELD’s version of house arrest, with agents stationed at both of their apartment buildings and monitoring their every movement. They couldn’t go anywhere without supervision.

Clint was sitting on the sofa in Coulson’s apartment while Coulson had chosen the armchair, mirroring their positions six weeks prior. No alcohol was present however; they both wanted to be sober for this talk.

“Did you tell them it was your idea?” Clint furrowed his brow. The idea that Coulson might have done so had been bothering him ever since Sitwell had suggested it.

“No, I didn’t,” Coulson said, “although the thought did occur to me.” He drew in a deep breath. “I only told them that I trusted your eyes.”

Clint ignored the warm glow that suffused his body. “But you told them we were together,” he pressed.

Coulson was silent a moment. “Nick Fury has known me a long time,” he finally said. “He made an educated guess. He’s the reason we’re on house arrest and not in SHIELD cells.”

“If you trusted me,” Clint shook his head, “why the rescue mission?”

“Because I was terrified!” Coulson’s eyes blazed with emotion and Clint’s breath caught. “For thirty-six hours, I had no idea if you were dead or alive. I had no idea what your plan was. You had no backup and you had gone completely off the grid.” He leaned forward. “My hands were completely tied.”

There was a beat of silence and then laughter sputtered from Clint’s lips. He clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to suppress it but it came bubbling out. The corner of Coulson’s lips quirked and Clint couldn’t hold it in any more. He laughed loud and hard, clutching his stomach.

“I can’t believe you said that!” he said between breaths.

Coulson finally gave in and started chuckling. Their laughter continued for several minutes until it finally petered out. They sat in silence.

“We should probably talk about it,” Clint said quietly.

Coulson nodded. “Yes,” he said, “we should.”

He stood and went to the kitchen, pouring glasses of water for them both. He set one in front of Clint and he gratefully downed half the glass.

“I want you to know,” Coulson said, “that I’ve never been with a submissive who experiences subspace or subdrop. That night was upsetting for me too.” He rolled the glass between his hands. “I wasn’t sure what to do and when I finally did act, I didn’t know if it would actually help. I went with my instincts.”

“Your instincts were good,” Clint said. “It helped.”

“I’m glad.” Coulson took a sip and set the glass on the end table next to him. “This is a lot to take in and we don’t have to come to a decision tonight - ”

Clint interrupted. “I’ve already decided,” he said. Coulson nodded and sat back, his expression neutral. Clint looked down at his hands before clasping them together and meeting Coulson’s gaze.

“I was afraid that subdrop would take away my ability to be Hawkeye but the way you make me feel is worth that risk.” He hurried on when it looked like Coulson would interrupt. “I’m not talking about subspace. I’m talking about the way you inspire me. The way you make me feel as if I’m special. That I’m worth something.”

“You’re priceless.” Coulson’s voice was a fierce hiss.

A small smile touched Clint’s lips. “I want this,” he said. “I want you.”

Coulson was quiet a moment. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “We’ll take precautions,” he said. “We’ll make sure it never affects your work - ”

“Coulson?” Clint interrupted. “Get over here and kiss me.”

They met each other halfway, falling into each other’s arms. Their kisses were tender and slow as they poured all their emotions into their actions. They drifted towards the bedroom, their progress hampered by their inability to let go of each other. Once they closed the door, moonlight was their only illumination. They undressed each other slowly, exchanging kisses and caresses, assuring themselves and each other that they could have this, that they could keep this.

Once all their clothes were scattered on the floor, Clint clambered backwards on the king-sized bed, not wanting to let Coulson out of his sight. Coulson followed, his gaze dark and hungry. His head dipped to take Clint’s cock in his mouth.

“No.” Clint’s hand shot out and grasped Coulson’s shoulder. Coulson stopped. “I’m not going to last long and I want you inside when I do,” Clint said.

Coulson surged upwards and planted a hungry kiss on Clint’s lips. Clint moaned and returned it in spades, both hands gripping Coulson’s shoulders. Coulson pulled back after one last peck and used his left knee to spread Clint’s legs.

“Raise your leg, sweetheart,” he said, turning and reaching for the drawer of the nightstand.

Clint did so. Even though he was already fully unclothed, he felt even more vulnerable in the new position. His right hand grasped Coulson’s forearm, seeking some kind of reassurance. Coulson turned back to him and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, then another on his lips.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. His fingers, slippery with lube, circled Clint’s hole and Clint gasped, his hand tightening on Coulson’s forearm.

“It’s been,” he said, “a while.” Clint gave him a lopsided grin. “And you’re not exactly small.”

Coulson nodded. “I’ll go slow,” he promised. He slid his arm underneath Clint’s shoulders to cup the back of Clint’s neck. He distracted him with kisses - sucking the delicate skin of his neck, nipping his collarbone, worrying at his ear - while he slowly worked three fingers inside. At one point, his fingers brushed against Clint’s prostate and Clint’s entire body jolted, his mouth falling open.

Clint felt pleasure spiraling higher and higher until finally he cried out, “Please!” He opened his eyes and said, panting, “Now, sir, please.”

Withdrawing his fingers, Coulson reached for a condom. He quickly rolled it on and positioned himself at Clint’s entrance. He pulled up Clint’s other leg and for once, his composure slipped as he realized just how flexible Clint was.

Clint smirked. “Circus.”

Coulson bent him nearly in half to plant a searing kiss on his lips. “You’re amazing,” he said once he pulled back.

“Right back at ya,” Clint said. “Now, can we get on with it?”

Coulson let go of one of Clint’s legs to grab his own cock. He guided the head to Clint’s entrance and slowly began to push inside.

Clint arched his back. “Fuck,” he said, panting. “Fuck, you’re - ”

“Let me know if I need to stop.” Coulson said. A hint of wildness had entered his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Fuck, don’t stop,” Clint moaned, grabbing his legs and spreading them wider. “Don’t stop.”

Coulson continued his slow push forward until he was fully inside. He stopped and they stared at each other, both breathing heavily. Coulson leaned forward, planting his palms on the bed on other side of Clint’s head. Still holding Clint’s gaze, he slid out a few inches and snapped his hips forward.

They gave simultaneous groans. Coulson did it again and Clint closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, relishing the friction between them, the slow burn of the heat gathering low in his belly.

Coulson slowly increased his pace until his hips rocked Clint’s body on every thrust. Clint could feel himself sliding closer and closer to the edge and his hands clenched the back of his knees.

“S-sir,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting Coulson’s gaze.

His eyes burned into Clint, his jaw tight. He looked almost angry but Clint knew he was just as close to the edge as he was. “Come, baby,” Coulson said through clenched teeth. “Come for me.” He changed his angle slightly and his cock dragged over Clint’s prostate on his next thrust.

Clint’s mouth fell open in a silent scream as his climax rushed through him. Come spurted from his untouched cock as pleasure swept through his body. Coulson’s thrusts became even more powerful as he groaned through his own orgasm, falling down onto one elbow as the last shudders racked through him.

Their panting was the only sound for several moments. Clint stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide in disbelief. Finally, Coulson leveraged himself up and pulled his softening cock free, causing a low moan from Clint. Clint let his legs fall to the bedspread as Coulson headed to the bathroom, returning with a soft washcloth. He gently cleaned Clint off, kissing him softly every few moments. Clint gave a whimper when Coulson touched his still sensitive cock and wondered if he would ever feel his fingers or toes again.

They finally recovered enough to curl up under the covers. After a while, Clint found his voice.

“Totally worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now marked complete but don't worry, their journey isn't over yet! I realized that Clint's story was over and the next part needed to be from Phil's perspective.
> 
> Continue following their story in _Awakening_.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and comments are much appreciated.


End file.
